The Sky Breaks. It Sags And Breathes

Those Moments Before A Poem Comes, When The Heightened Awareness Comes Over You, And You Realize A Poem Is Buried There Somewhere, You Prepare Yourself. I Run Around, You Know, Kind Of Skipping Around The House, Marvelous Elation. It’s As Though I Could Fly.

Bike Downtown, Stick Out Tongues At The Catholics. Or Form A Piss Club Where We All Go In The Bushes And Peek At Each Other's Sex.

I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

Poor Thing. To Die And Never See Brooklyn.